


yes yes yes

by squadrickchestopher



Series: Filthy Porn Fridays [12]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Car Sex, M/M, Porn with Feelings, that's it that's the whole fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29046762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: There’s benefits to having a truck.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Filthy Porn Fridays [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860367
Comments: 21
Kudos: 108
Collections: Clintucky Fried Bunnies





	yes yes yes

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'ed, mistakes are mine

There’s benefits to having a truck.

The ability to move things is nice, sure. Come in handy several times, mostly when Kate needs to move to yet another apartment. And something Midwestern in him is always a little thrilled when he starts it and the engine roars into life with a deep rumble.

But this, though—this is Clint’s favorite thing about having a truck. The moments when he has some free time, and he can take it out of the city. He likes to go somewhere quiet, away from the lights and the hustle of the city. Park it somewhere dark, lay out a few blankets in the truck bed, and watch the universe move above him for a while. It’s calming, in a way he never knew he appreciated, and he loves every second of it.

He also loves the nights when Bucky can join him. Because it means they get to sit together, eking out a few quiet moments, enjoying the stillness of the world.

And then they usually spend the rest of the night lazily making out in the back of his truck, rediscovering each other under a canvas of stars. This is why he’s never sold the thing, despite the fact that it’s practically his age, and needs an oil change every ten miles, and has to be babied up steep hills. He has so many memories in this truck, and even though he’s never kept a sentimental thing in his life, he flat-out refuses to ditch it until it falls apart in the middle of the road, cartoon-style.

Bucky hums quietly underneath him—a question, more than anything, looking up at him with trusting eyes. Clint shakes himself back into the moment and leans down again, slipping his tongue into Bucky’s mouth, kissing him slow and deep.

He’ll never get rid of this either, this thing he has with Bucky. He doesn’t always know what to call it, doesn’t always know how to navigate it, but he knows to hold on tight. This is a _good_ thing, and he so rarely gets those. He’s taking this one all the way into the station, ride this out until it falls apart in his hands or something else happens. Clint’s not naive—he knows the life they live, and the risks they take. But he also knows to appreciate what he has when he’s got it, and god, does he appreciate Bucky.

Which, he reflects in amusement, is an easy thing to say when there’s metal fingers slipping under his waistband, when Bucky is driving him crazy with every press of his lips, every swipe of his tongue, every scrape of his teeth over sensitive skin. But he also appreciates other things. Like the way Bucky will meet his eyes from across the room and flash him a smile, a small, secret thing meant only for him. Or the way he has a coffee ready on the mornings that they have to go out early, or the way he knows when Clint’s having a bad day and needs to be left alone to stew before being bribed out of the range with pizza.

He’s been doing those for a long time, too, long before they were even really a thing. Way back when it was still a casual hook-up. Clint had been surprised every time, unused to acts of kindness, and always waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it never did, and Bucky kept being good to him. Like he meant it. Like Clint was worth it.

He’d even learned sign language, because there was a series of missions where his aids kept getting knocked out, and the only person he could reliably talk to without interpretation was Natasha. Which was limiting and sucky, until the day Bucky walked in and signed, _It’s time to go to work._

Or rather, that was what he’d _tried_ to say. What he’d actually said was _It’s time to go fuck,_ and Clint had laughed so hard he fell off his stool. Bucky had been mildly offended until Nat translated, and then he’d laughed about it too, not even embarrassed. _I tried,_ he signed, and Clint had to correct his hands on that one too, fingers trailing over the metal as he tried to ignore that little spark burning inside him.

They’d started practicing together after that, and Bucky learned so damn fast that it was only a matter of time until he’d gained some measure of fluency. The spark kept growing, turning into a fire, then into an inferno, and then they were suddenly kissing on a rooftop one day, and Clint’s entire soul was like a poem he once read, everything in him screaming _yes yes yes._

Now they’re _here_ , together on a pile of blankets, tangled up so close that Clint can’t tell whose heartbeat is whose. They haven’t spoken a word in hours to each other, other than little adjustments, and they don’t need to. Clint has always been comfortable in silence with the right person, and Bucky is a man of few words. They’re just _together,_ jagged puzzle pieces who found their match against all odds, and that’s more than enough for both of them.

Bucky’s fingers slip under his boxers, gently teasing around his rim. There’s another silent question in that, the press of them, and Clint kisses him in answer, shifting for better access. Bucky grins against him, other hand patting around until his fingers close around the bottle he tossed to the side ten minutes ago. Then there’s a shifting, a movement of fabric, clothes falling away until they’re both naked. Clint knows Bucky’s body better than his own, he thinks, the valleys and curves of it, the scars and the memories and the nightmares. He traces his fingers over where metal meets skin, watches as a shudder comes in response.

There’s a slick sound, and a steady pressure, and then two fingers pull a soft sigh from him. It disappears into the night, lost to the crickets and Bucky’s warm laugh in response. He kisses Clint again, rolling them onto their side, and keeps going. He conducts Clint’s body like an instrument, knows exactly what moves to make to elicit his favorite sounds. Clint’s not sure if that means he’s predictable or if Bucky just knows him that well, but if it gets him this, he doesn’t really care.

He slides down, oddly bereft for a moment as Bucky’s fingers slip out of him. He fills the void with Bucky’s cock, wrapping his mouth around it and sucking gently, watching as Bucky arches up into him. Clint moves with him, teasing, flicking his tongue, and watching, watching, watching—he’s never going to get tired of this, of how Bucky goes to pieces at his touch, of the way he looks at Clint, of the trust in his eyes.

A hand winds into his hair, gently tugging, and Clint takes him a little deeper. He hums around him, comes back up with a grin, fingers playing at every inch of skin he can reach. He drinks in Bucky’s noises like they’re water and he’s dying in the desert, and maybe he’s being a little smug about it, but he doesn’t really care. Anyone in his position would be.

The sounds reach a frantic pitch, Bucky’s gasps getting more erratic by the moment. Clint times it just right, pulling off and squeezing around him in time to get a furious glare and a mumbled string of curses. Then he’s grabbing at Clint, tugging him into position, one leg bending. No words, but they still don’t need them— _I want you_ is spelled out all over him, desire practically bleeding from his fingertips as he settles Clint just right, easing into him with a quiet moan.

They slip into a rhythm as familiar as the stars above them, as steady as the passing of time. Clint tips his head back, sparks flashing across his vision as he rolls his hips in fluid motion. It’s perfect that they’re out here, under the stars, their actions as old as the universe around them. Maybe it’s a little over-romantic, but Bucky’s always looked best in these moments, open and wanting, silver moonlight reflecting off him.

He looks down again, meeting those perfect blue-grey eyes, his own thoughts reflected back in them. It makes him blush, red heat creeping up his neck, because he knows without a damn word that Bucky’s thinking he’s beautiful, that he’s perfect, that he’s everything—exactly the same thing he’s thinking. Bucky grins at him, winks, then tugs him down into a kiss that’s half-tongue and all filth. Clint moans into his mouth, bites his lower lip, one hand sliding to pinch and roll a nipple. He laughs at the muffled yelp it gets, laughs again when Bucky smacks his ass in retaliation.

His orgasm takes him almost by surprise, lost as he is in the movement and Bucky’s hands and the stars above them. It’s a warmth from the inside out, spreading from his core and moving down to his toes, seeming to melt him as it goes. He feels Bucky follow him over the edge, groans softly as his fingers tighten around Clint’s hips, leaving bruises for him to find in the morning.

They stay like that for a while, watching the stars track across the sky. Then Clint slowly shifts, letting Bucky slide out of him, leaning down for a kiss.

They do the non-sexy things—clean-up’s always a little more difficult in the pickup, but the sex makes up for it, honestly—and then he settles himself against Bucky’s chest, tugging a blanket over them. Dawn’s starting to creep over the horizon, he knows, stars beginning to fade into the slowly lightening sky. They don’t have much longer before they’ll have to drive back. Settle into the world again. Get back into the routine.

But that’s later. This is what they have now, and Clint takes a deep breath, committing the moment to memory, storing it alongside the dozens of others he has exactly like it. This is a good thing, and he knows not to let a good thing go.

“I love you,” he says after a moment, the words quiet in the early dawn.

Bucky holds him closer, burying his nose in Clint’s hair. “Love you too,” he mumbles, and Clint smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Clint references (and the title) is called God Says Yes To Me. 
> 
> Which, I will be perfectly honest, I only know exists because of [this fic by inkvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24225745) which remains to this day one of the most amazing things I've ever read. Please go read it. Please.


End file.
